


Cold and Comfort

by a_taller_tale



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Cold, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6511006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grif was captured and his captors did not provide snacks and it's fricking freezing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold and Comfort

Grif had been knocked out before he was brought there so he didn’t even know who he had to blame for the headache. If he knew anything about who captured him he’d at least be able to work on some material.

It was cold down in the concrete cell. Just a stone room with no windows and a sliding metal door on one side. Not even a little window for a food tray like in the movies. His hosts were so rude. No one had provided any snacks.

Grif was cold. He hadn’t been cold like this in ages. Some variation of hot or desert or canyon had made up his life for so long now. His armor had been released while he was knocked out and it was nowhere around. He hated the way the under-suit stuck to him in the armor, but now the sweat was dried on his skin. He shuddered.

What seemed like hours later and still no one had come to check on him. What was he even being held for? 

He hugged himself, folding his knees up to his chest to conserve warmth.

Sarge and Donut and Lopez and Simmons were definitely coming. Even the Blues would probably help after all the times Grif had talked Red team into helping Caboose on a certain-death-mission. Everyone would piss and moan about it for a few minutes and then they'd drag along an available bad-ass freelancer to cut through the bad guys and he'd be out in another hour. Tops.

They were coming.

They owed him.

But they were pretty busy with the latest special ops military psycho. They had other priorities.

Grif shivered, holding his arms around himself. It didn’t help much.

Another hour later he was curled into as tight a ball as he could make himself, only aware of how cold he was. If he could wake up enough he could crawl over to Simmons’ bunk. Simmons complained a lot, but he always allowed himself to be squished into the smallest amount of space possible so Grif could hog the bed and all the blankets on the rare cold desert night.

But Grif didn’t really feel like he could move right now. He was just. Really cold. Didn’t want to lose any more heat by uncurling. 

He tried to call Simmons’ name, but the first attempt was just a shaky hiss. Simmons would bitch about him being lazy, but he would come over. 

Grif thought he felt that familiar warmth against his back. But then he knew it wasn't real because he imagined two human arms around him.

He settled into it anyway pretending he didn’t feel cold anymore. And then it worked. He was finally able to pass the fuck out. 

-

Grif was startled out of sleep when the door slid open. His body tensed for a fight, or a beating, since he didn't have shit to defend himself with, but then his eyes were open and there was someone in maroon armor silhouetted in the light coming from the hall.

“I’m dying,” Grif groaned, forcing himself to relax. Everything ached. Muscles, bones. Could've been sleeping on concrete or the temperature. Either way, he didn't attempt to move too much just yet.

“You’re not dying, fat ass. You’re fine.” Simmons’ voice cracked on the end. He was worried. Even with his battle armor on Grif could see Simmons practically vibrating with anxiety.

“Gee, that’s comforting. You could try to be a little more convincing.”

“I’m trying the best I can! You’re the one who decided to get captured!”

"I didn't decide shit. You think I wanted to go to a hotel where they don't provide beds and blankets and hot meals?" 

Simmons pulled in a breath to retort and Grif shivered a little waiting for it, but Simmons stopped. He removed his helmet first and then started on the gauntlets.

“What are you doing?” Grif uncurled slightly and lifted his head to see better. Used the wall to sit up a little more. Simmons’ presence was enough to thaw him somewhat, wake him up, but he was still tired and aching and cold and now it looked like Simmons was determined to freeze too.

“The others are coming, but they’re further behind.” There was a little bitterness in Simmons’ tone, but he was also avoiding Grif’s eyes, not really answering Grif’s question about the strip show.

“You came by yourself?”

“They weren’t really agreeing on the rescue mission fast enough.”

Yeah, he could imagine it. Sarge was probably stalling talking about how useless he was, but Grif was surprised Simmons didn’t wait on the team to come around.

Simmons’ chest plate came off next. Then his leg guards.

“The armor would help me carry your fat ass but it wouldn’t keep you warm. I found an office nearby that’s better than this cell to wait on the team.”

Grif blinked. “Wait, if you came alone, how did you get through the base? Guards? Maybe you should put your armor back on.”

“They’re dead.” Simmons shuddered this time, but it didn’t look like it was because he was cold. “There could be more guys, but we should be okay until we get backup.”

Simmons awkwardly circled him, unsure of where to grab Grif to pull him up. Grif rolled his eyes and just reached up, feeling like a little kid. “Just touch me, Simmons.”

“Y-you don’t have to say it like that. Asshole.” Simmons put his flesh arm around his back. The cyborg arm would have helped balance his weight better, but Simmons was strong and his flesh against Grif’s back practically burned against his cold skin through his shirt.

It felt so good. Grif sunk into it even as Simmons tried to leverage him up.

“Don’t act like a dead weight now! You can lay down in a minute.”

Grif whined a little, but tried to make his stiff limbs cooperate. He ended up losing his balance and falling against Simmons chest-to-chest. It was hard to motivate himself to fix it when Simmons was so comfortable and warm. Not a hardship to fall asleep standing up right now. 

“You’re hot, Simmons,” he mumbled against him, instinctively burrowing.

Simmons took in a quick breath and shakily sighed it back out. He didn’t complain, but started steering Grif towards the door to the cell instead. “I bet you didn’t even try to keep your circulation up by moving around in there. You just laid down to take a nap.”

Though it was true, Grif took his revenge by moving his cold fingers up under Simmons’ shirt and against his stomach. Good decision. Genius, even. The broken squeak Simmons let out was totally worth whatever petty revenge he came up with later. 

Grif continued to be unrepentantly unhelpful as Simmons dragged him down the hall into the small lounge that actually had a couch in it. It didn’t look like the most sanitary or anything by Simmons’ standards, but the couch still practically glowed with heavenly light after dozing on the concrete floor. 

The overhead lights dimmed at regular intervals with an electronic buzz, but it was a lot more insulated than the detention cell once Simmons closed the door.

Simmons dropped him on the couch and Grif immediately missed the warmth. Simmons’ Dutch-Irish skin was flushed, but he had a really determined look on his face as he took stock of the room. He jammed a high-backed chair against the door, and checked the gun he had attached to his hip. Grif was surprised he hadn’t felt it when he had pasted himself against Simmons earlier. 

Grif watched him, the tremors coming back. Simmons gave him a wary look, like Grif was exaggerating his discomfort on purpose to freak him out. Granted, if Grif was feeling better he might have, but not right now. 

He followed Simmons’ frenzied movements with his eyes. Simmons dug around in some cabinets off to the side and whooped when he found a thin blanket. It didn’t look very warm, but Grif made grabby hands anyway. 

It was a big couch, but both of them wouldn’t fit without getting veeeery close if they laid down, even without their armor on. Grif reluctantly sat up, patted the spot next to him, and pulled the blanket around himself so tightly the fabric strained. 

Simmons perched on the very edge of the couch, as far from Grif as he could be and still be on it. 

“I didn’t invite you over here for a tea party, Simmons. I’m freezing to death.” 

Grif actually had to grab his arm to drag him closer. Grif's grip was weak, but the touch was enough to throw Simmons off balance. He flailed before falling forward and crushing Grif against the couch flat on his back. 

The wind had totally been knocked out of him with Simmons' metal arm, and his leg landed worryingly close to Grif's crotch, but a couple of shifts, and Grif found a comfortable spot. Simmons let himself be maneuvered, his embarrassed babbling gradually making way to begrudging grumbling, which meant he was relaxing too. 

Simmons was really warm. Either from humiliation or his body just ran a little hotter since the cyborg operation. Grif closed his eyes, his bouts of shivering slowing. That was years ago. He really should know which it was by now, but there weren't many excuses to touch your teammate platonically, and they had private bunks now since being promoted to captains on Chorus. This was the rare acceptable situation he was allowed to touch Simmons. He would never take advantage...

Grif slid his freezing fingers up the back of Simmons' shirt. Simmons grumbled again, but didn't even slap his hand away. Grif was much warmer by the time the rest of the teams arrived for the rescue.


End file.
